Blah Blah Blah

Monday, December 24, 2012

One
hundred meters ahead the Gnomes crested the rise Alphie was scouting. Alphonse
“Alphie” Acornshield quickly scrambled to his waiting fox. Alphie had the
dubious luxury of being a scout in the specialist core assigned to the third
battalion, seventh division, of His Most Illustrious Elfin Army. Normally that luxury
was far from dubious…Being a “specialist,” as they liked to call themselves
meant good food, fine drink, and feems, the finest feems in all of farie.

As
his fox sped through the dense foliage Alphie thought back to the previous
evening’s staff meeting….

Laughter rang throughout the tent as Alphie
entered.

“Those pitiful gnomes will never learn will
they?” Shouted a drunken red faced elf…his pointed ears even redder then his
face, and the buttons of his uniform straining against his prodigious girth…”We
will trounce them handily!” The ultimate commander of the Unified Elfin Army’s
deep and commanding voice was at odds with his comic appearance.

“At most they will send a few battalions of
those summer scum from the west! Every year it is the same thing on the
front…we form up the day before Christmas, they throw a few thousand Scummer
gnomes at us, we stomp a muddhole in um, and then we party Christmas day…this year
will be no different!” the officer in charge of the specialists stated
scornfully. His appearance couldn’t have been more at odds with the Ultimate
Commander’s if they had tried. Tall and trim he cut a fine image for a young
officer. His pristine uniform well fitted and crisp, all his medals lined up
smartly. Where the Ultimate commander’s face was bright red and bulbous the
Specialist officer’s was angular and tan. Colonel Oakenbrand was a fine officer.

“Scout Acornshield, come here lad,” colonel Oakenbrand
snapped sharply, “go to the northwest end of the front and sit for the day; you
have earned a rest…don’t want to let the feems down tomorrow…and we can say we
covered all our bases”

Those
words echoed in his memory as the sound from the present shook him to his
bones.

“Thrum, Thrum,Thrum

We march to the beat

Of our drums

We’ll take their meat

And then we’ll eat

From their

Kidneys and livers

And Lungs…”

The
chant thundered across the valley as tens of thousands of Winter Gnomes crested
the northern rise, effectively flanking the elfish Army. Alphie flailed his fox
for more speed, with very little hope of being able to prevent the massacre
about to be visited upon his fellows.

“And their kidneys

And livers

And lungs!”

Merry Christmas friends and family! This Short fiction piece was written in response to a prompt By Ben Ditty over at Nice Old Spice , although Ben was nicer to his characters then I :-)

Thursday, December 20, 2012

commencing this
Journey? path walk, destination
in a place that will be the same
place I and Mine
End

Where you and yours may
to some day get
the solute
bang bang
bag pipes and trumpets
a flag just so

The grass green
lt
sights laid out just
so so so
morbidly preening
that spot is a better
place to sit for a long, long

sleep aludes me
so I trod the well worn paths
where my children play
jumping from stone
to stone...writing all over the place
brings lives pinpoints times
magnifies how csprecious
fickley fate can be

Chris, McQueeney

Brian has asked us to take a walk, for dVerse poets pub. Aross from my house is a cemetary...the kids love it, and a small scar forms as I read the children's stones. I actually want a traditional Indian above groud buirial, or a ground level rock carn..leave my my remans to feed the animals...they fed me long enough

Friday, December 14, 2012

A number of
years ago I had been sober for a time, then relapsed. I had just got a rather
large bag of rock cocaine…I had an awesome dealer (I thought he was awesome),
he had consistent product, strong, and he always answered his phone…and I was
driving home to get fucked up.

Driving up my
road I saw three of my sober friends standing on the road in front of my home.
Fuck! I was loaded, drugs in pocket, and the only reason for those three to be
together and at my house was to do an intervention. Now if you don’t know what
in intervention is, it is where friends or family and sometimes even a
professional confronts an addict and tries to get them to give up, get sober,
to live. Jeff, Red, Mike, all standing there waiting for me. As soon as I saw
them I thought about just driving past and going somewhere else, but my street
is not big and they would know I did that. I loved all three of them, they were
good friends, so I decided to stop and talk to them.

I parked the
car and got out…picture this, it is dark, the street lamp lighting us just
enough to make out each other’s faces, I was all fucked up, they were sober…and
walked over to them. Now unless you have ever done an intervention you wouldn’t
know how strange they actually are. Everyone knows each other well, usually,
but no one is comfortable. The sober parties are apprehensive because even
though they know the addict they don’t know what they are walking into; addicts
aren’t known for rational behavior (I laughed as I wrote that; the truth is
that addicts are insane). The addict will be uncomfortable for a host of
reasons. Hell those sober people may try to stop them from getting loaded.

None of those
guys really knew what to say, I think Jeff said something like “how you doing,
you getting fucked up?” I laughed, no shit was I getting fucked up, “yes.” “Ok, do you have drugs on you?” “Yes.” “Why don’t
you give them to us and come hang out.” “Nope.” “So you are going to do the
drugs, and not come with us?” “yup.” “Are you planning to do anymore driving
while you are all fucked up…will you give me your keys?” “Sure,” knowing that I
had a spare set, “here take them.” “Are you sure you won’t give us the drugs
and come with us?” “Yes I am sure, I am going to get good and fucked up, but I
will get sober tomorrow. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” I said as I was
walking away from them to go inside. There was more, but like I said I was
fucked up so that is the gist of the conversation.

They all
talked, they all tried to talk me out of going inside with the drugs. They did
all they could.

I proceeded to smoke
the coke all night long, leaving at one point to get some more, and got all
fucked up. The entire time I was getting high I was in my bedroom. In some ways
I probably resembled Gollum if not on the outside, for sure on the inside. I
was consumed by the drug, feeling euphoria not obtainable any other way. And
being consumed mind body and soul.

I smoked like
six hundred dollars’ worth of rock that night, and it was good. But inevitably
the drugs ran out, and I started coming down. I still had money, but I told
Jeff I would get sober that next day, so I called him.

I can’t
remember if Jeff picked me up, (and to tell you the truth, I think it was the
next day, it might have been a week later…drugs will do that to you, a day
turns into a month pretty easy) or if I drove over to his place. At that time
Jeff lived with Rick, another friend of mine who was in recovery as well.

Rick let me
detox in his spare room. Detox from Rock Cocaine is tame when compared to
alcohol, or heroin, or benzos. Mostly you feel like shit, I mean really like
shit! Coke eats up all the endorphins in your body and inhibits its production.
So in reality you can’t feel good without more coke, or time. I slept for a
couple of days, smoked cigarettes, and talked to Rick and Jeff. I have no idea
what they said. I’m sure I can guess though, they talked about recovery. I do
remember that Rick took me to a meeting at the Grotto in NE Portland.

That was many
years ago, and I stayed sober for a few years because of the things those four
men did.

About two
months ago Jeff gave me a call…Rick was drunk and not doing well. Jeff and I
went to Rick’s house, Jeff having moved out quite a while ago, to do an intervention
on Rick. We got there after the ambulance and fire truck. When the police found
out we were sober and in recovery they let us deal with Rick. His wife was
drunk and balling. His daughter was drunk and trying to tell Rick what he
needed to do.

All Jeff and I
could do was have the same conversation with Rick that was tried on me. “Why don’t
you come with us.” “Nope.” “Why don’t you give us the booze.” “Nope.” “You are going to keep drinking?” “Yup, but I’ll
get sober tomorrow.” As I left Rick got
up and gave me a hug, “you’re a good man Chris, I love you.” “I love you too
Rick”

Two Days ago Jeff called me to talk
about his granddaughter, and a book cover he is designing for me. Towards the
end of the conversation Jeff told me why he really called. In the background
this stupid fucking show called The Amish Mafia was droning on, I hadn’t turned
it off when he called. “On a sadder note, Rick drank himself to death. He was
found this morning in bed dead.”

A good man
died, was sentenced to death, and his only crime was that he couldn’t quit
drinking.

See you again

With tears in my eyes

Tremor in my voice

I say good bye to a good man

A friend

A loved one

Sleep well my friend

Rest with peace

And when I go

I hope to see you again

Chris McQueeney 12/14/12

Rest in peace

Rick

12/12/12

To the families of those lost today my
thoughts and prayers go out to you, which may be of small comfort, but it is
all I can give. Please if you comment leave the argument about guns for a more appropriate
time and place, show some respect for the dead and wait at least a few days.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Hello, everyone! It’s Ben Ditmars again. Chris McQueeney has agreed to let me do another post on his amazing blog. It’s been a few months and I bet you wonder what I've been up to. No, it wasn't a safari. The closest I've got to wild animals was playing Oregon Trail and I’m partially responsible for the decline of the American buffalo because of it. What I have been up to is equally exciting. I have a new book out titled Haiku in the Night. It’s a collection of free-verse and traditional haiku. I had a vision, ladies and gentlemen, or conversely jezebels and hooligans.

I wanted to really explore haiku and show its versatility. You know, break down rules, stick it to the man? I think I succeeded in sticking it… in the most platonic way possible. I don’t think poets should be turned off of it because of its rules. It’s a beautiful form of observation and succinct emotion. Syllables are not near as important as the meaning behind them. I think this is true in the Japanese tradition as well as the American. My organization for the poems is four colors, an homage to Basho’s by season. Please, check it out or read a sample. For just pennies a day you can keep this poet off the streets. Maybe I'll even send you a drawing to prove they haven't sold me into prostitution. Here's a few favorites I'd like to share with you: